6. Cole
COLE
Most nights, I end up with the guys from the hockey team, which usually means sitting around while half of them hang off their girlfriends. So when Sam and Marcus kept pushing me to come out with them, I figured it might at least be a decent distraction. An hour or two when I don’t have to think.
Instead, I’m standing in a strip club that’s loud as hell and somehow even grimier than it looked from the outside, the bass pounding through my chest and lights flashing hard enough to make my head throb.
A couple of guys from the gym are already at the stage, throwing singles at a dancer in six-inch heels as she swings around the pole.
“This is the club you wouldn’t shut up about?” I ask, blowing a bubble that snaps against my tongue as I arch a brow at Sam, who’s grinning like he just hit the lottery. “Pretty pathetic, paying for pussy.”
Sam laughs and slings an arm around my shoulders. I knock it off without even looking at him. “Come on, Ellis,” he says over the bass. “You telling me you’ve never paid for a dance?”
I shove my hands into my pockets. “You ever seen me need help with girls?”
“Dude.” He shakes his head. “I barely see you anywhere unless you’re hitting someone on the ice or hitting the punching bag.”
Before I can tell him to get lost, he digs into his pocket and shoves a thick wad of bills into my hand.
“Make it rain,” he says. “My treat.”
Jesus.
These guys throw money around like it means nothing, like it’s just another thing to burn through on a night they won’t even remember.
I glance down at the bills in my hand, my jaw tightening as I count them without meaning to.
Two hundred, easy. Probably more. Crisp, clean, and completely wasted in a place built to swallow it whole. I curl my fingers around the stack.
He heads off toward the stage and I roll my eyes, shouldering past a knot of drunk assholes yelling over a tray of shots, all of them too loud and too close. I head for the bar instead, because at least there I can stand in one place and get a drink.
I flag down the bartender, order a Jack and Coke, and brace my forearms against the bar while I wait.
When the glass slides toward me, I wrap my hand around it and take a slow drink, letting the burn settle low in my chest. The whiskey’s decent—better than I expected—so I nurse it instead of knocking it back, letting the burn drag down my throat.
A girl slips in beside me, wearing next to nothing, just a scrap of lace. She places her hand on my shoulder and shoots me a smile. “You want a dance, honey?”
I don’t even look at her when I shake my head. “I’m good.”
She leans in closer, putting on that breathy, practiced voice. “You sure? We’ve got specials tonight.”
I glance at her hand, then lift it off my shoulder. “You’ll make more off those guys.” I jerk my chin toward the guys around the stage.
She lets out a breath and moves on without another word.
I let my gaze drop to the singles still folded in my hand, irritation tightening in my chest. I could shove them back in my pocket, hang on to them, give them to Sophie instead. Half this stack would cover her groceries for a week, maybe two. She needs it a hell of a lot more than anyone in here.
“Alright, boys, you ready for something special?” the DJ shouts over the speakers.
The losers in this place whoop on cue, but I don’t bother turning around. I couldn’t care less about whatever’s happening on stage. My head’s already somewhere else. Next week’s game. The rent I’m still short on. Sophie. Always Sophie.
“We’ve got a new girl for you tonight. It’s her first time on stage, so let’s make her feel welcome. Give it up for… Roxy.”
The music kicks in and the guys around the stage lose their minds, whistling and shouting like they’ve never seen a woman in their lives. Someone beside me mutters, “Holy shit,” and shoves up from his stool so fast that his elbow slams into my arm, hard enough to make my drink slosh over the rim.
“Watch it,” I snap, already turning, irritation flaring as I try to see who the fuck—
My eyes catch on the stage, and everything in me just stops.
For a second I’m convinced I’m wrong. It can’t be her. It’s just a coincidence. A look-alike. Some girl with the same blonde hair, the same sharp eyes, the same viper mouth.
But my body tenses up, and I know without a doubt, it’s Aurora Prescott up on that stage.
She’s wearing the skimpiest scrap of black lace I’ve ever seen, the thong cut high over her hips, the bra nothing but thin straps, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. The bass drops as she crosses the stage, the lights catching on every bare inch of skin.
Her hair hangs loose down her back, catching the light when she moves, and for a split second my brain forgets she’s a vicious snake and my eyes drift down her bare body.
What the fuck.
Snap out of it.
A guy next to me nudges my arm, jerking his chin toward the stage. “New girl’s got a hell of a body, huh?”
My grip tightens around the glass before I even realize it, but I don’t look at him. Don’t say a word. I just stand there, staring at her on that stage under a name that isn’t hers, my pulse hammering hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.
She’s not working the crowd the way some of the other girls do.
She isn’t winking or blowing kisses or even reaching for the bills; she just moves like no one’s watching.
One hand curls around the pole as she rolls her hips, then she slides a leg up and holds it there before letting herself swing.
The music pounds through the room, and she keeps moving with it, every motion so confident it makes my jaw ache.
Guys around me are losing their minds, whistling, waving bills in the air, shouting the kind of shit that probably works on most of the girls in here.
Aurora doesn’t react, though. She swings around the pole, her hair sliding down her back, those long, tanned legs curling around the metal, her eyes fixed somewhere far away from every asshole in this room.
She drags a hand slowly down her body, her fingertips brushing over her ribs, her stomach, the top of her underwear. The crowd goes louder instantly, losing their shit, but she still doesn’t give them what they want.
Something ugly curls in my chest. A sick, hot feeling that settles in my stomach because I can’t stop looking at her. My jaw locks hard enough to ache. Every time she arches her back, every time she rolls her hips and spins around that goddamn pole, my blood sizzles.
This isn’t attraction. Fuck no.
It’s anger. Raw and buzzing and bitter on the back of my tongue. Anger that she’s here. Anger that she looks like this. Anger that she’s so good at it I can’t drag my eyes away.
And the longer I watch, the worse it gets, because it’s like she’s dancing for herself, like she’s at home instead of on a stage. She doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t give a single asshole in this room her attention.
Until she does.
The second her eyes land on me, her shoulders go tight. Most people here probably don’t notice it, but I do. I catch the way her eyes widen, the way her mouth tightens for half a second before she turns and swings around the pole again like nothing happened, pretending like I’m not even here.
But it’s different now. There’s tension in her movements, a stiffness through her shoulders that wasn’t there before. For someone who looked so untouchable a second ago, like she didn’t care about anyone in this room, she suddenly looks anything but comfortable.
Or maybe it’s me. She didn’t want me to see this. Didn’t want me to see her.
The corner of my mouth pulls slightly as I lift my glass and take a slow sip, keeping my eyes on her the whole time.
By the time the song finally ends, the whole place is losing its mind. Money flies toward the stage as she finishes with one last spin, sliding down the pole before her heels hit the stage.
She doesn’t even bend to scoop the cash. She just turns and walks straight off, leaving the bills scattered across the stage.
I drain the rest of my drink and shove through the crowd. I don’t bother looking back at the guys from the gym. Don’t care if they notice I’m gone. All I’m focused on is the narrow hallway off to the side, where the dancers disappear between sets.
I catch sight of her before she reaches the door. She’s moving fast with her head down, like she can outrun the last ten minutes if she just gets off the floor quick enough.
Not happening.
She doesn’t notice me until I’m right in front of her, blocking the exit.
She stops so suddenly she nearly walks straight into me, her eyes snapping up, irritation flashing hard across her face.
“Get out of my way,” she snaps.
I hold her stare. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Her eyes sharpen instantly. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Viper. What the hell are you doing in this club?”
She tips her chin up, her shoulders squaring as that usual fire snaps back into place. “None of your business, Reaper.”
The nickname rolls off her tongue like a curse, and something hot flares under my skin, anger tangling with something I don’t even want to think about right now.
I step closer, close enough she has to tip her head back to meet my gaze. “It is now,” I bite out. “I want a lap dance.”
She freezes for a couple of seconds and I catch the shock flash across her face before a bitter laugh slips out of her. “Bite me.”
My brow lifts at the bratty little comeback she usually throws my way as I pull the stack of cash from my pocket. “You need the money, right?” I say, holding it out between us.
Her eyes drop, and I catch the way her shoulders go stiff, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Then she looks up at me slowly, those blue eyes sharp enough to cut my skin.
“You want to pay to watch me dance?” she says, arching a brow. “Fine.”
She yanks the stack of singles out of my hand, folds them, and tucks them into her bra. Before I even realize it, she shoves me back into the nearest chair, hard enough to knock the air out of me for a second, making it clear that this sure as hell isn’t for my pleasure.
She doesn’t move right away. Just stands there, looking down at me like she’s daring me to flinch first. Like she wants me to be the one to back out.
When she realizes I’m not changing my mind, she steps between my legs, sliding a hand up my chest. She barely meets my eyes, keeping me at a distance even this close, making it clear this is on her terms and not mine.
That doesn’t stop my breath from catching, or the sharp hit of her perfume cutting straight through the haze in my head.
She swings one leg over and straddles me, leaning in close enough I can almost taste the poison on her lips. “You know how this works, right?” she murmurs, her voice low enough to make the hair on my arms stand up. “No touching.”
She turns, grinding the heel of her palm into my thigh as she spins before backing into me and dropping down hard on my lap, crushing my balls in the process.
I bite out a curse, the breath punched from my lungs as pain shoots straight through my gut. My hands go to her waist on instinct, digging my fingers into her bare skin, and she throws me a look over her shoulder that’s sharp enough to draw blood.
“No touching,” she repeats, “unless you want security dragging your ass out of here.” The look in her eyes says she’d enjoy that way too much.
My jaw locks as I let my hands fall away. “I paid for a dance,” I bite out. “So give me a fucking dance.”
I watch the tension settle into her shoulders, the way her jaw tightens before she faces forward again and starts to move.
She grinds back against me, rolling her hips to the beat so slowly that it feels like torture.
This is payback. I know it even as my pulse starts pounding harder, even as my jaw aches from clenching it. If she can make me hate every second of this, she will. And if she can make me hate myself for wanting it, even better.
And it works. Christ, it works. My pulse is pounding, my jaw locked so tight it aches, heat crawling under my skin until I’m convinced everyone in this place can see it. She leans forward, arching into me, that scrap of black lace hardly any barrier as her ass rubs against my cock.
I grip the sides of the chair, my knuckles turning white, and force myself to remember why I started this. This was supposed to be about power. About getting under her skin. But the longer she moves against me, the harder it is to ignore the truth.
She’s the one in control.
And I’m the one getting fucked over by it.
She lifts off my lap, turns, and straddles me again, facing me this time. Then she sinks down, grinding against my cock hard enough to drag a rough sound out of me. Her mouth curves into a smirk, those blue eyes locked on mine, knowing exactly what she’s doing to me.
I shouldn’t want this. I don’t want her. But when she presses down on me again, all the anger I walked in with turns into something hotter, burning straight through my chest.
I paid for this dance to get under her skin.
All it’s done is make her get under mine.
She keeps it up, putting on a show just for me, arching her back, tossing her hair so it skims my jaw, my cheek, every place she knows will get a reaction.
I hate her for it.
I hate myself even more when I feel my cock start to harden, every nerve lighting up, every muscle pulled tight with the urge to grab her, shove her off, or do something. But I don’t move. I keep my hands locked on the chair and force myself to take it, grinding my teeth.
Her breathing shifts. Only slightly, but I catch the way it turns a little heavier, the way her chest starts rising faster, the way her jaw tightens when she rolls against me again.
Still, she doesn’t crack. Not once. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t give me a single thing that tells me whether this is affecting her anywhere near as much as it’s affecting me.
She stays in control, driving me out of my goddamn mind, right up until the song finally bleeds out and the music changes.
Then she lifts off my lap like none of it happened. Like she wasn’t just grinding on my cock.
She looks down at me, her expression bored, that untouchable ice-queen act sliding right back into place.
Her brow arches, her gaze dropping to my crotch. “Looks like you enjoyed the show.”
I glance down at the bulge straining against my pants, my stomach twisting at the sight of it after having her grind her lace-covered pussy all over me.
Before I can say a word, she turns and walks away, slipping through the crowd and disappearing into the back hallway without a single look back.
I’m left there alone, with my fists clenched and my pulse hammering in my throat, wound so tight and so angry I can barely see straight. I drag a hand down my face, breathing hard, staring at the empty space where she was.
What the fuck just happened?